Читать книгу Love And Liability - Katie Oliver - Страница 20

Chapter 11

“Have you ’eard, Jamie?” the delivery man called out as he backed his truck behind the restaurant and jumped down. “Your restaurant’s about to ’ave a bit of competition.”

Jamie Gordon wiped his hands on his apron. “Yep. I’ve heard.”

Opening a restaurant had been Jamie’s dream from the time he was a student at culinary school in Edinburgh. Seven years on, his dream was finally a reality. Thanks to his half-brother Rhys’s financial stake, Gordon Scots was open for business.

And now Marcus Russo, the popular, potty-mouthed television chef, was about to open a new brasserie right around the corner.

His mobile buzzed. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered as he saw Rhys’s name on the screen. “What’s up, bro?”

“I understand you have a competitor moving in.”

“Yeah. No worries. We’ve had great reviews and we’re busy as hell. Everyone loves the whisky bar.”

“Good. Nat wants you over for Sunday dinner soon. Oh, and she says to bring along one of your chocolate whisky cakes for afters.”

“Sure, let me know when. Give Nat my love. Talk soon.”

The deliveryman began unloading crates of fish from the truck. “That Marcus Russo may be one hell of a chef, but he’s a bastard to work for, and no mistake.”

Jamie glanced up from his inspection of a case of iced salmon. Russo, although notoriously abrasive and short-tempered, had half a dozen successful restaurants to his name, all boasting at least one Michelin star. He put aside the crate and reached for the next.

“I’m not bothered,” he said, and shrugged. “There’s room for both of us, I reckon.”

“Once I was five minutes late on a delivery,” the man said, and shook his head. “My truck was full up. He made me unload the lot, then refused to sign for the delivery. Had to load it all back on the truck. Right pissed off, I was.”

Jamie smiled slightly as he signed off on the delivery. “I bet you weren’t late again.”

“No,” he admitted, and handed down the last crate. “I wouldn’t hesitate to run ’im over with my truck, though,” he added. He slapped Jamie on the back. “See you Monday, mate.”

When Friday lunchtime rolled around, Holly pulled out her handbag and counted her money — barely eight pounds to her name; good thing she got paid tomorrow — and left her desk to run down to the corner shop. Her stomach rumbled as she emerged from the BritTEEN building.

Automatically her glance strayed to the bench across the street. Zoe had gone missing for the last couple of mornings. But today she was back, her rucksack under her feet and one arm stretched along the back of the bench, her face turned up to the sun. A skinny blonde with a neon-pink skunk stripe in her hair sat next to her, legs crossed, smoking.

If they noticed Holly, they gave no sign.

“Hey, Mr Singh,” Holly said to the tall, turbaned man behind the till as she grabbed three Cokes and a handful of chocolate bars and dumped them all on the counter. “Guess what? I might have my first feature interview soon. And I’ve got a mini-interview coming out in the next issue of BritTEEN.”

He rang up the items. “Congratulations.” He raised his brow as she added several Peperamis to the pile on the counter. “You’re very talented. And also very hungry today, I see.”

“No, it’s for someone else. Could you put everything but the Coke and the Peperami in a separate sack, please?”

Bags in hand, Holly waved goodbye and made her way across the street to join the two girls on the bench.

“Well, if it isn’t the boho queen,” Zoe remarked as her eyes swept over Holly’s outfit of a blue-striped Oxford shirt tucked into a butterfly-print skirt. “I like your bangles. Nice,” she approved. “Come from one of them posh shops?”

“No,” Holly said, admiring her armful of colourful wooden bangles as she held out a bag, “Camden market, two for five quid.” She turned to the blonde. “Hi, I’m Holly.”

She exhaled, releasing a plume of smoke. “Sharon. Ta.”

“We’re mates, Sha and me.” Zoe took the bag from Holly and rummaged inside. She withdrew a Coke and a Crunchie and offered the rest to her friend. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Listen,” Holly ventured as she sat down between the two girls, “how’d you like to be in a magazine?”

As she licked chocolate from her fingers — half of the Crunchie was already gone — Zoe snorted. “Who’d want to see the likes of us in a magazine?” she scoffed. “We’re not models or pop stars.”

“You don’t work for one of them lads’ mags, do you?” Sharon wondered.

“No!” Holly shuddered. “I work for a teen magazine.”

Sharon eyed her curiously. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Well, I write about things that interest teenage girls — interviews with boy bands, stories about back-stabbing friends who steal your guy — stuff like that.”

“Meet many celebs, then?” Sharon asked avidly.

“Well, I interviewed Dominic Heath last summer…but not usually, no. Anyway,” Holly forged on, “I pitched a story idea at the staff meeting.” She turned to Zoe. “I want to write about what it’s like to be a homeless teen in London. I thought I might interview you. Maybe shadow you for a day or two.”

“No!” Zoe’s answer was sudden and fierce. “No fucking way.” Abruptly she stood up, Crunchie wrapper falling to the ground, and grabbed her rucksack. “Come on, Sha, let’s go.”

“Wait!” Sharon said, confused. “Zo — why don’t you want to do it? At least think about it—”

“I said no. Let Holly’s teen rag find someone else to write about.” Zoe shoved the rest of the chocolate and crisp packets in her rucksack, swung it over her shoulder, and stalked away, leaving Holly and Sharon behind.

She didn’t slow her pace until she reached Piccadilly Circus. If she saw the curious looks cast her way, she gave no sign. Fury propelled her forward, and she scarcely registered the people she brushed past, so lost in black thoughts she was.

“Zoe! Hold up!”

She turned to see Sharon, breathless and flushed, running after her. “Sha? What are you doing here? I thought you were still back there, talking to the boho queen.”

“Why are you so hard on her?” Sharon asked. “She’s only trying to help.”

“I don’t need her help.” She began walking again.

“Shit, Zoe, why are you always so tetchy?”

She rounded on Sharon. “Why? Because if it wasn’t for my mum, I wouldn’t be in this fix. That’s why.”

“What happened, then? Tell me.”

They fell into step together, and after a moment Zoe began, haltingly, to talk. “My parents split up a few months ago. At first, I thought Mum’s new boyfriend was cool, you know? He had that Scandi thing going on — tall, eyes like blue ice, blond hair — and a car like something out of a Bond film.”

“Came on to you, did he?” Sharon observed knowingly. “When your mum wasn’t there?”

“Worse. He tried to rape me.” Zoe spoke flatly. “It started off okay — we messed around a bit when Mum wasn’t there. She wouldn’t let me go to Glasto with my girlfriends. I was pissed off.”

“So what happened?”

“What d’you mean, what happened? He wanted sex.”

Sharon shrugged. “So?”

Zoe glanced at her and away again. “I was a virgin, okay? I was scared. Didn’t wanna tell him that, though, did I? So I told him no and asked him to stop, but he wouldn’t. He’d been drinking…a lot. I got away, locked myself in my bathroom until he left. He said Mum would never believe me, and that he’d tell her I came on to him, that I wanted it.” She shook her head. “And the thing was, he was right. Mum would’ve believed him over me.”

“And so you ran away.”

“Yeah. I ran away. End of story,” Zoe finished.

“Are they looking for you? Your parents, I mean.”

“No. My dad’s so busy, I doubt he’ll even notice I’m gone,” she said, her words bitter. “He’s not home much. But Erik…he’s already looking for me.”

She’d thrown some clothes into a rucksack, along with fifty quid — birthday and Christmas money. Halfway out of the door, she’d realized she didn’t have her mobile.

“So, why’s Erik after you?” Sharon persisted. “If you ran away, why would he even care where you went?”

“I have his mobile,” Zoe retorted, “that’s why. He must’ve left it behind, and I grabbed it by mistake. And it’s got…things, on it. He’s involved in some pretty dogdy stuff, Sha. I think…” she hesitated “…I think he might be a sex trafficker.”

“Bloody hell,” the other girl breathed, and came to a stop. “You’ve landed right in the shit, haven’t you?”

Zoe’s hand tightened on the rucksack strap. “Yeah. Right in it.”